A Promise To Keep
by A Sherlocked Girl
Summary: They meet again. This time through letters. SEQUEL of 'I'll Find You Again'
1. Chapter 1

The letter came when John was out patrolling.

It had been three months since John had returned to Afghanistan; three months since Christmas; three months since he last heard of Sherlock. John left his base's postal address to Sherlock's website 'The Science of Deduction' as requested and dared to hope that Sherlock would write to him. But as the days passed by the whirlwind of that 24 hours seemed to look like a scene from a Romantic movie- scripted, not real. The more John thought about it the more he was convinced about his stupidity for hoping. Of course Sherlock was not going to write, why should he? Who would take the trouble to send words to the other end of the world to a faceless entity? Sherlock was talented, interesting and probably rich too where as John was just an Army doctor with a death ticket sticking to his forehead. Even if Sherlock didn't lie while promising to keep in touch he surely changed his mind after that. John didn't blame him, he couldn't. The entire thing was too strange and good to be true.

The first month was the toughest. John used to wake up every day hoping that the letter would come. When John first got deployed two years ago Harry wrote to him a couple of times and that was that. He didn't get to receive any letter anymore. Most of his army mates used to get them pretty regularly. They had families, friends, partners to worry about them. It was a damn good sight to watch their faces lit up with the happiness their loved ones had sent them through their letters. So, when Sherlock asked him to leave his postal address John was not only excited about keeping in touch with Sherlock but he loved the idea that he would get to receive letters, too. But John should have known better than to hope.

~0~0~0~

"Hey Watson, you've got a mail!"

John was just about to enter his tent and stopped short. He had received a letter. Instantly his mind raced back to Sherlock; a long suppressed hope peeped up its head but he rejected the thought immediately. It must be Harry, it must be and that thought made him nervous. His sister was reckless to say the least and with her alcoholism her life was spiraling down every moment. John entered and stood before his bed; a slightly crumpled envelope was lying on his neatly made bed. His heart was pounding. John stared at it for a long moment and then turned away from it to remove his head gear and protection vests. Sand was glued to his sweaty body, he felt dirty, tired but above all he felt scared.

~0~0~0~

Dear John,

I won't ask you if you remember me because I know you do. What I would do is to apologize to you for not writing to you any sooner. I will not give you any excuses because only lies require details, in my defense I can only state that I was straightening out my life. You see John, I never do anything half heartedly and if I am going to keep my promise then I'm going to keep it till the end which requires me to be strong enough to reclaim the responsibilities of my own life from my brother. It took me three months to ensure it. Will you accept my apology? I hope you do.

Now, tell me about yourself. How are you, physically as well as mentally? How was your Christmas? Did you find your friend, that Mike fellow? How is the situation around your base? Tell me anything and everything. In one of your texts you said that you wanted to know me better. Do you still wish to do so or have you change your mind? Because I want know about you as much as I can, John.

I have returned to London, at last. My brother was reluctant but my grandmother insisted him to take me back. I threatened to poison her cats, you see; I wouldn't though. I don't hurt animals, well, at least not when they are alive. She got so scared that even Mycroft couldn't convince her to keep me any longer; she's a bit dramatic but the plan worked anyway. I missed London so much, this city keeps me alive. I missed you too, John. I didn't even know it was possible to miss someone whom you didn't even 'know' in a conventional way. And once again this only proves that normal is overrated.

I have news for you, good or bad that will depend on how you perceive it. I have started to work with the Yard. The Detective Inspector, who is the least stupid one of the bunch, has let me look into some cold cases, at last. Most of the cases are dull which again put the efficiency of our Police department on question, some of them are really interesting though. The best thing is that I get to use my brain in the process. I would like to know your opinion regarding this matter when you write to me. You will write to me, aren't you, John? I hope three months are not too late to keep a promise. Am I wrong? I don't want to be but if I am then I just want you to know that you are now a part of one of few happy moments of my life.

I look forward to seeing your hand writing.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes.

~0~0~0~

John's eyes burned while reading the letter. He wouldn't cry though, he wouldn't. He was a fucking soldier for God's sake. He couldn't cry. Three months of waiting, three months of hoping against hope that Sherlock would keep his promise and now he was holding the reward in his hand. He didn't have to pretend that it didn't matter to him, didn't have to try to forget that 24 hours, not anymore. A new hope was born today.

~0~0~0~

**A/N: **Hey Guys, so here is the SEQUEL of 'I'll Find You Again'. If you have a minute to spare then please let me know your thoughts. I hope you enjoy the read :D

A very special thanks to my best friend Magda The Magpie without whom this series wouldn't have been possible. She is my constant inspiration; my Muse! 3

John didn't open the letter till he went to bed that night. He wasn't even sure he was ready to read it after seeing the sender's name. He was so excited that he felt numb. During the whole time after getting the letter his played a guessing game with his mind about the content of the letter but nothing could have prepared him for what Sherlock had written. The letter was abrupt and out of the ordinary to say the least but then again John really didn't expect anything common from that mad genius. John guessed that Sherlock didn't socialize much but now John wouldn't be surprised if he came to know that this was the first informal letter Sherlock had ever written. And he liked it so much, he loved it. It had a certain raw flavor about it- bare of any formal niceties, intense, precise and honest. It was so much like Sherlock and John absolutely loved it.

John fell asleep that night trying to compose his reply. He had a letter to answer, after all.

~0~0~0~


	2. Chapter 2

It had been over two weeks since Sherlock sent his letter to John and still no words came. He knew sending a letter to the other end of the world, especially to a war zone, would be a time consuming affair but Sherlock Holmes wasn't a patient man. In this case his agitation was doubled because he didn't even know if John would write him back or not. What if John had forgotten him already and moved on? _Moved on? Where the hell that came from? They just exchanged some texts for God's sake!_ Sherlock slapped himself mentally. But still he couldn't reason his uneasiness.

He was in a cab right now. NSY had called him earlier for a debriefing for a case he solved last night. After solving a good case the heady feeling of absolute calm usually remained at least a day but the more the gap between his letter to John and current day was increasing the more Sherlock found himself agitated. He hated himself for being like this but he couldn't forget the feeling he experienced when John wanted to connect with him. The need to be wanted by another human being, not for cases, not for any mundane selfish reason but just for being himself was so alien to him that he wanted to experience that feeling once again. But after almost 17 days Sherlock began to doubt that those 24 hours might be just a flash in the pan.

He reached home. Well, Mycroft's home actually. He hated to be under Mycroft's nose all the time but even Sherlock knew that asking Mycroft to let him stay on his own would be too much to hope for. His brother wouldn't allow it, not after discovering him in a drug den just a week later he decided to let Sherlock live alone in a flat on his own.

Nestor opened the door. He was Mycroft's butler (_that git had a bloody butler!_) and his actual name was something like Roger or Robert or something with 'R' but he looked like Nestor, so Sherlock preferred to call him that. However, after opening the door this Nestor informed him that a letter was delivered to him today and it was currently in his room. Sherlock was pestering Nestor everyday for a letter so the butler thought it would be wise to tell him now than to wait up and listen to his daily badgering. Sherlock almost ran for his room.

~0~0~0~

Dear Sherlock,

I've been staring at this paper for last 10 minutes, at least. I don't know how or where to start, what to say. Seeing that you've skipped the formal niceties I'm left with even less options. It's not like I want to you be formal with me or anything. In fact I am glad that you decided to skip it so that I don't have to be formal either. Jesus, I'm blabbering now! Great! But I'm so fucking excited! Not because I didn't expect you to write to me but because I did expect this letter every day for the last three months.

I guess I should thank you for writing to me and pretend that it didn't matter to me that it came after three bloody months but I can't do that, Sherlock. I'm not a bare-your-heart-to-all kind of a guy but I've decided not to hold anything back from you. Sometimes in our lives we meet some people who make us want to lose control of our inner self, with whom we want to be ourselves, without any pretention, any masks. You are my 'that' person with whom I want to be just John, not a soldier, not a responsible doctor, not an understanding compromising John Watson, only John. So, I must confess that I was literally miserable in the past months. You can't give vision to a blind man only to take it back again because that will make his darkness more hollow than it already is. I know you had obligations, inhibitions but I am just saying what I felt, that's all and that doesn't mean I'm angry with you or something. You can't even imagine how happy I felt when I held your letter. You didn't even need to apologize, Sherlock, not for making me insanely happy. And hey, no sorry or thanks between friends, alright? Okay, so that concludes the angsty part of my letter.

What have you done, you mad genius, that your brother had to take this much of control of your life? You weren't a serial killer, were you? Or a nuke-weapon maker? I wouldn't be surprised if you were. Yes yes, I know another stupid attempt for being 'funny'. Anyway, you said your Gran 'is a bit dramatic', now I know whom you have turned out to be. Threaten to poison her cats?! I know I shouldn't say this but that was actually an ingenious idea. I almost cried laughing.

How are you? How is London? Oh, I miss home. Is it still my home? I don't know. How was your France trip? Did you get to French kiss someone under the Eiffel Tower? I heard it looks magnificent at night. I'm alright here, at least as okay as you can be in a war base. Last month there was a minor upheaval but now it's comparatively quite. It's been five days since the last injured soldier arrived at our medical tent. It's been too quite now, perhaps the kind of quietness you witness before a storm. Don't worry though; we are always on our guards. My Christmas was alright; I met Mike at a pub and we chatted for a few hours. It was nice meeting him; he is one of my oldest friends. It was a nice evening. But I missed you all along. I miss our texting.

So you are a Consulting Detective now, huh? Only one in the world because you invented the job! Jesus, that's fucking awesome, Sherlock! People will get to know how brilliant you are. It's amazing! I'm feeling so proud! Did you deduce anyone on the Yard? Are you working on a case right now? If you don't mind I would like to know more about them. I am glad that you are doing what you wanted to do for a long time.

It's night in here and I should sleep as it's not my turn to night-watch but I feel like writing you more and more. The length of my letter will prove that. I am rubbish at writing letters as I don't have the slightest practice and also I mess up whenever I try expressing my emotions. I am sorry if you die out of boredom while reading this. I'm sure the next ones will be better.

Thank you Sherlock for keeping your promise and giving me something to hope for. Write to me soon, yeah? Take care and be brilliant.

With all the good wishes for your new career,

John Watson.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock never received an informal letter coming from other than his family. So, he didn't really know what to expect exactly but one thing he was certain about and that was John's letter left him surprised, shocked and immensely happy. He knew John was an open type of a guy but he never expected this much openness and it made him overwhelmed. John waited for his letter for every day? John felt miserable without it? He missed Sherlock? John chose Sherlock to be that person with whom John could be….just John? He thought Sherlock was his…his friends!? He made another human being happy? Someone was happy because of him? Because of Sherlock Holmes, the freak? And moreover John was proud of him! Sherlock's oversensitive mind soon went blank and he retrieved to his only place of solace- his Mind Palace. He was scattered and he needed to compose himself and he had to do that soon because John Watson was waiting for him.

~0~0~0~

**A/N: Hi guys!**

**Let me thank each of you for your comments,follows and favourites. I can't tell you how much confidence they give me. Thank you so much for your supports. I hope you have enjoyed the chapter and if you have a minute to spare then please let me know your thoughts by leaving a comment. :) 3**


	3. Chapter 3

John's last week was a blur. Their neighbouring base (base 3) was attacked; there were explosions, blood, injured and dead soldiers- the usual scene of an active battlefield. One of the two doctors of the Base 3 was injured so John along with a support team from their base (Base 4) had to go to the explosion site. He was now a seasoned soldier but seeing the life seeping out of a person affected him every single time. He saved most of his fellow soldiers injured during the explosion and those whom he couldn't save he mourned for them in his own way. So when Sherlock's letter came in the middle of this Pandemonium he decided to take his time in replying as he didn't trust himself to give a proper reply to that extraordinarily intense letter.

In the meantime, when the exhaustion from shuffling between his roles as a doctor and a soldier took over him completely and he felt drained, John used to read Sherlock's letter repeatedly, to remind himself about the hope the writer had presented.

~0~0~0~

Dear John,

I must admit that I was somewhat surprised by your letter. I abhor acknowledging that I don't really have much experience in matter of reading personal or friendly letters but I can ascertain that this kind of unusual openness is rare between two people who don't even 'know' each other in a traditional way. That being said I also must clarify my reaction for the sake of your rather dense brain which is now, for sure, on the way of forming wrong conclusions of all sorts. I mean 'unusual' in a good sense. I enjoyed your letter thoroughly.

It is not in my nature to apologize at all and apologizing twice for a same cause might not have happened in my life ever but here I am, asking you to forgive me once again for taking so much time in sending you the first letter as the delay had caused you so much agitation. On the other hand I am glad that you chose to express your feelings about the situation. It has given me an insight of your mind and I really appreciate it. But John your sense of using imagery is appalling. Blind man, really? But do not stop trying to be poetic, it's quite amusing. And I do not plan on stopping this correspondence; I don't start anything what I cannot finish.

I will not be able to explain elaborately the reasons for which I was forced to hand over the well being of my own life to my brother but let's just say taking correct decisions on impulse is not my forte. I have my demons and to state it even more plainly (for the sake of your rather simple mind) the line "everything that kills me makes me feel alive" is very much appropriate in my situation. And no John, neither serial killing nor a nuclear arms making was/is/will be my career of choice.

Why on earth I want to contaminate my mouth with another person's saliva? I am really shocked that you even entertained the thought that I might do something as naïve as that! And what is the importance of kissing under the Eiffel Tower? Does the act make enjoying the complex architecture better? Although, throwing someone from the top of the Tower and observe the breaking patterns of their bones can be quite interesting. I must give the prospect a serious thought. And yes John, Eiffel Tower at night is a sight to behold. I hope we will see it someday. My days in France were spent in plotting my escape from my grandmother's house, so you can guess how it was.

I am happy to know that you find my new career interesting. I also thank you for the compliments you have showered on me. It's not often I receive them. In fact my mother was the last and only person who said that she was 'proud' of me. I know it is not really possible for you to actually be proud of me without knowing me but your words pleased me nonetheless.

Are you sure you'd like to hear about my cases? You are fighting in a war, watching blood and death more than a normal person should. Are you willing to hear about some more gory details of death and revenge? If you are still interested then I'll be more than willing to fill you with my case notes. You see, a fresh, rarely used brain always acts as a good sounding board.

How often do you need to 'night-watch'? Do the doctors also need to go on patrolling? How is the situation there? We do not get news of the war often unless something big happens. Your last letter was lengthy, unusual and horribly sentimental but it was far from being boring. And I hope this letter will bear the proof of my continued existence. I did not die reading your letter.

John, I appreciate your honesty and frankness. You should deserve the same kind of honesty in return and I will try my best to do it but know that it will not be easy for me. All my life I've been taught to be secretive and controlled; I've told time and again that I am a sociopath (I prefer high-functioning sociopath), so I hope you will excuse me if I fail to return the same kind of openness you have shown. But have no doubt about this, John, that I am honoured that you chose me to be your 'that guy'. I don't have friends but now I think I've got one.

That day when you first texted me I saved your number as Strange John. I was not wrong. You are Strange, in a very positive way. I miss your stupid texts too. Try to write sooner.

Sincerely,

Sherlock Holmes.

~0~0~0~

When John first read it his mind didn't even register all the meanings the letter conveyed; he had just returned at his own base at that time. Its significance dawned upon him fully on his second read and after finishing the letter he wondered how a mere letter could evoke so many contradictory feelings within him. It was sweet, strange, hilarious, bitter and amazing with a tinge of sadness. He met with an entirely different side of Sherlock through the words he wrote and it left him stunned. He was awed to see how easily Sherlock referred them as 'we'! He didn't have the faintest idea how he should respond to this; he wasn't even sure if Sherlock was aware of its significance. For John it was difficult to actually express his heart and mind so openly but he decided to do it anyway because he wanted that lonely genius to know how important he was, how treasured his every word was to John. He decided to give Sherlock every bit of happiness he could afford to give from thousand miles afar because Sherlock deserved to be happy.

~0~0~0~

**A/N: A tight hug for each one of you for your lovely comments, favourites and follows. I can't tell you how happy your responses make me. Thank you so much. If you enjoy the chapter then please leave a comment. Have a wonderful week! 3 :)**


	4. Chapter 4

"Already managed to get yourself thrown out of the Yard, brother?"

"Where did you hide them?"

"I'm afraid I do not understand what you mean."

"You know very well what I mean, you bloody moron."

"Language, Sherlock."

"Give me my cigarettes back, Mycroft."

"You were advised to quit them."

"I was advised to _reduce_ the number gradually and I am doing exactly that. Now, give them back."

"Feeling jittery already? I'm sure the letter will come shortly."

Sherlock was pacing the room but stopped instantly.

"How do you know about it?"

Mycroft was smugness personified, "know about what? Your little pen-friendship with our brave Army Doctor?"

"You read my letters? You..? HOW DARE YOU MYC…." Sherlock was interrupted with,

"Oh, please. I have more pressing matters than to read your fancy letters, brother. No, I do not read them but after you breached my system to look for a Dr. John H. Watson I did a bit of background checking. I know it's hard to believe for you but I do care about you and your security is one of my top priorities, Sherlock."

"Mind your own business, Mycroft. John is not a threat. He is fighting the war for you and your Queen, for Christ's sake!"

"I do not consider Mr. Watson a threat. I was just merely…."

"Stop your _mere_ meddling. I am doing whatever you have asked me to do; I'm clean and even trying to cope up with those incompetent pricks of the Yard. But if you do not stop breaching my privacy I promise you Mycroft that I will make your life hell and you, of all people, know very well that I'm capable of doing it."

At this exact moment a knock came and with it came Nestor declaring that a letter was delivered to Sherlock.

Sherlock glared at his brother for a few seconds more and made his was towards the door.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock stopped but did not turn.

"Try not to get attached."

He left the room without answering.

~0~0~0~

Dear Sherlock,

How are you? No, don't discard it as a formal quarry; answer me honestly because I need to know. I need to know that you are alright. I have sent a letter to Harry also but won't get a reply probably. Just let me know how you are, yeah?

I was right, you know? It was indeed calm before the storm. There had been explosions in our neighbouring base and we had to send a support team; I was among them. Death, blood, severed limbs- it was hell Sherlock, hell. No matter how many times I see them die it feels like a first time. I mean, how can you habituate yourself with death? At least I can't. There was this young lad, Reggie, I tried to save him, you know? I really tried but couldn't. He had his baby sister's name tattooed on his arm. He was only 22. He was of your age. He reminded me of you. I failed him. I tried my best but couldn't. I held his life in my hand and let it slip through. And do you know what I did after that? I drowned myself in booze. And I thought of you. Do you have any tattoo Sherlock?

You call me daft but it's you who is actually stupid, brainless. How can you, with your level of intellect, let yourself be wasted away? You have this huge brain of yours and you can't even control some mere addiction? I thank your brother for his interference. Your life is not only yours, Sherlock. You are too good, too precious to be wasted away. Don't do this please. Who will call me back home if you are not there?

You said that we would see the Eiffel Tower at night someday. Did you really mean it? When the water gets over our heads, we plan our future, like what we will do when we get home finally, how many children we will have or how pretty our partners will be, the picket fences, gardens- silly things like that, nothing fancy. It gives us some moments of oblivion, we let fool ourselves by these talks because we all know tomorrow only sand and scorching sun will welcome us. I bet Reggie had these dreams too. I'd like to visit Paris with you too. And we will have a blast, yeah?

The nights are cold here. Not like London-cold but empty-cold. It leaves me dry and hollow. Not always though. I am a mess right now and everything seems morbid. It's not like the doctors have to go patrolling always but sometimes we have to. Sometimes I volunteer. Plunge into unknown, the danger looms around me. I like the rush of adrenalin.

There is nothing new in my life except for the daily battle for survival. But we try to live rather than only to survive. Times like this shake our determination sometimes. We are getting letters from inmates of a rehabilitation programme. I got this letter from this bloke, he is a kid actually. Only 17. This kid is a recovering addict. I wish he gets through it. He has a whole life ahead of him. Taking drugs to cope up with your pains is not only silly but cowardice. I mean how long he's gonna escape the reality? Face it and get it over with. I didn't say these things to him but if he continues to write to me I'll do then. I hate to preach but these people need friends more than medicines. They need windows to breathe. But he won't write for long, I'm sure of it. Who wants to write to a boring soldier? I know you'll get tired of me as well. I have nothing interesting, captivating in my life and I know how you hate being bored. You will be bored soon and I'll end up reading your old letters everyday. But till then at least we can plan our Paris vacation, heh? Not bad for a future plan of a man with a death ticket, yeah?

People who don't want to befriend you fuck them (well, not literally). I bet they don't deserve having you, Sherlock Holmes, as a friend. And you have one charming dashing John Watson at your service so don't bother about anyone else. I bet you only met wrong people throughout your life. But now you are saved by the grace of this humble Army Doc. But jokes apart, you are the most brilliant genius man I've ever known in my life, Sherlock! Yeah, it's true that you're not everyone's cup of tea but it's their loss that doesn't get to know you.

One of my mates has become a dad recently. It's a boy, a little wee thing with crunched up red face. His family has sent some pictures. We celebrated a little. It's always amazing to see a new life. I don't have anything new going on with my life so I thought I should share the news with you.

Of course I'm still interested in your cases. Please, do write about them. It's good to catch known enemies than to hold guns against some faceless beings. And discussing your cases will keep you interested in writing to me hopefully. Otherwise I am stuck with a kid who writes about how fucked up the rehab programme is or how even bigger a loser I am. God knows how eagerly I wait for your letter. Take care, Sherlock and please don't be reckless with your life. Write soon, alright?

Yours,

Strange John.

~0~0~0~

After reading the whole letter Sherlock felt two things- a mild panic (though he was sure it was just concern and nothing else) about John's depression and an irrational surge of jealousy (of course, Sherlock didn't admit that too) knowing that John was now writing to someone else also. He wanted to find the boy and kicked him out of that rehab and he reasoned himself by telling that he was just angry because that stupid prick called John a loser. Sherlock concentrated on how to make John more interested in Sherlock's letter so that he would have even less urge to write to that sod. He wanted to convey John how much he, too, enjoyed John's letters, how much John mattered. John could never fail anyone. There was also a funny flutter he felt when he read that John wanted to plan something together with Sherlock but he decided to discard the feeling for now.

Sherlock also made a mental note to tell John never to thank Mycroft for anything, ever.

~0~0~0~

A/N: Hey guys

I'm so sorry for the late update. I am going through a very hectic schedule which is sucking up all my time and energy. But, the chapter is here and I really really hope you enjoy the read.

Hugs for all of you for reading, reviewing and favoring this story. You make my tiring days brighter. Thank you so much. love you all. If you like the chapter, please share your thoughts by leaving a comment. Your words matter to me.


	5. Chapter 5

"Erm…"

"These are… are these ears!?"

"Erm…"

"I-It's a charred body!"

"Erm…"

"Is this man dead?"

"Erm…"

"Doc, why did you get these..um..these..uh..?"

"Erm…"

"Who the hell sent them, Watson?"

"Erm…"

~0~0~0~

Dear John,

My existence is going on without fatal interruption. I am as good as I can be among these incompetent idiots which surround my life (there are, of course, some exceptions).

I am sorry for the unfortunate death of the young soldier you mentioned in your last letter. I detest the politics of war; I cannot fathom the sentiment which makes people enlist to fight the war which is planned in cold rooms by equally cold and selfish political leaders to gain personal profits. I don't belittle the courage the soldiers show, I have neither the authority nor the desire to do so but I doubt whether the cause really justifies their deaths. However, I am greatly relieved to know that you are relatively safe. You will do more good to society being alive than to be killed in a foreign land.

I can't alter the past where I took some impulsive and foolish decision about my life but I can assure you, John, that I have regained my composure. Knowing about the way you deal with your life and the choices you make I've realized my past follies and trying to rectify them. But please never thank my brother for anything. He is a power addict arrogant meddler, nothing else.

I have just finished a case yesterday. It was dull and boring. I don't even know why Lestrade called me for this one. It is actually an insult to my intellect. This old lady of Croydon received a parcel from an unknown sender from Belfast. A cardboard box wrapped in a brown paper and a string and within it were two severed ears. It was clear by their structure that one belonged to a woman and the other to a man. At first the lady thought it was a cruel joke from one of the medical students who were her tenants when she was residing in Belfast. But of course she was wrong as the ears were cut from fresh bodies by a blunt object and without any trace of medical/morgue preservative chemicals. Therefore her theory about ex-tenant turned murderer was rejected by my deductions. The police was making a fuss about the ears but it was the box and its wrappings that interested me. The box was common and often used by the shipping companies; the string was of the same variety and the way our unknown sender tied the knots led me to the conclusion that the person worked in a merchant ship. That being narrowed down I went to interrogate the lady who received the parcel and discovered three facts- M. Susan Cushing had two other sisters one of whom shared the same initial with her (only S. Cushing was mentioned in the receiving address), the husband of her youngest sister worked in a merchant ship and lastly Ms. Cushing's ears had some striking similarities with the severed female ear. The case was immediately clear but I still lacked the information behind the motive. I set off to question the other Cushing sister who shared the same initial with Susan as it was quite clear that the parcel was meant for Sarah who shared a flat with her elder sister a few months ago. Upon reaching her residence, however, I was informed that she wouldn't be able to see me due to her sudden illness. I had everything I wanted to know. Meanwhile I told Lestrade to contact Belfast Police department to search for Mr. Brwoning, the husband of the youngest Cushing sister, Mary. He was arrested quite soon and confessed of his crime- her wife was having an affair with another man and this Sarah Cushing tipped him off about it (because she was in love with this Browning fellow and never approved his marriage with her sister). He killed Mary and his lover in a drunken rage one night and cut off their ears to send Sarah whom Browning equally loathed because he found out that she helped Mary in her affair as she never wanted his marriage to last.

It was a tedious and stereotypical case of extramarital affair led to murder. Can you imagine that there is not a single brain bright enough in NSY to solve this crime? I retold it only because you wanted to know about my cases. Now you know how painfully dull the criminals have become these days! Oh, John why can't there be a sharp enough criminal to challenge my mind? I'm bored and its Mycroft's fault.

I think I should congratulate you for your success in finding an imbecile who is daft enough to call a person 'loser' whom he hasn't even talked previously. I wonder at the level of his intellect based upon which he is able to formulate this conclusion about you without any data. Both of you must find a certain sense of bonding for your mutual idiocy. But be alert John or he may beat you in stupidity. And don't be tedious John, I may not have the brilliance of your new acquaintance but you are not going to get rid of me that easily. I'll keep gracing you with my letters as long as your mailing address is valid.

John, I've heard that people tend to mourn for the dead but don't you think it will do you better if you count the lives you have saved rather than to keep a tab of people you have lost while treating? It's worth a try if you ask me.

Self-loathing is for the weak people, John and you are not one of them. Do try to take care of yourself. Your life is not only yours too. And I would hate it if all our planning to visit Paris goes astray because of your inability to stay alive. Write soon.

Yours,

Sherlock.

P.S.- It seems that you enjoy photographs hence I am sending some of the pictures from my cases (including the last one). I hope you will enjoy them as well.

~0~0~0~

John never meant to show his mates the pictures; they just sneaked them out and what followed after that John didn't want to recall again. It was pure chaos but in a good way. John's army mates loved him as well as he loved them and they had their fair share in weirdness too but the idea of sending someone pictures of dead people was a bit too much even for them. Some of the younger boys were totally freaked out and some teased John to tears. John went to explain them about Sherlock but that earned him more teasing, winks and cat-calls. Only Murr didn't participate in all these and John knew he would have to face Murr's quarries sooner than he anticipated. But for now he just pushed all those thoughts aside the read Sherlock's letter again.

A thousand questions were running through his mind right now. This letter was a bit different than the others. Of course there was the case story which was interesting by the way but in this letter Sherlock seemed more open, more…..something. And might be a bit jealous? John ran his fingers over the words "yours, Sherlock" and felt a wave of longing towards the writer. He closed his eyes and tried to guess all the emotions that led Sherlock to write all those bits which made John irrationally happy. Those pictures might not be appropriate but the reason for which Sherlock sent them was enough to make John dizzy. He couldn't remember that last time someone consciously made an effort to put a smile on his face. The resulting fondness towards the mad man heightened John's urge to see Sherlock and he decided to ask Sherlock for something which he wanted to ask since his first letter.

~0~0~0~

**A/N: I am extremely sorry for the delayed update. I am going through a very rough patch of my life. I won't give any more excuses but I'm truly sorry.**

**The story (horribly) depicted here was taken from 'The Memoirs Of Sherlock Holmes'. The original name of the story is 'The Adventure of The Cardboard Box'. It is a property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle; I just retold the story rather poorly.**


	6. Chapter 6

**jovance:** Thank you for the wonderful comment you have left on the previous chapter. Sorry for the late reply as well as the update, I have been seriously ill for weeks now. I hope you enjoy the read.

Hey guys, sorry for the late update. I know I have been saying it for a lot lately, but I was really ill and still recovering. I hope you can forgive me and enjoy this chapter. Please review if you have a minute to spare.

"It's for a case."

"Yes, Sir, you've told me so."

"Uh..Should..should I stand or sit?"

"Whatever you think best, Sir."

"Hm. …. Alright. Now."

"Very well, Sir."

"WAIT! No…I mean, do you think this wall will make a good background?"

"You know the best, Sir."

"Oh, for God's sake, I'm asking your opinion. Stop being so annoying!"

"I think this side of the room will make a better back ground, Sir."

"I knew it. Let me get there."

"Okay, I'm ready."

"Very well, Sir."

"And…uh.. Nestor? Don't tell Mycroft."

"As you wish, Sir."

"Okay, I'm ready now."

_Click_

~0~0~0~

Dear Sherlock,

I am relieved to know that you are safe and still a git. That's a compliment, you know. It seems that gits are my type too, particularly the posh ones.

I am not going to say that I understand and agree with all of your notions about war but it makes me happy to know that to you we are not just some people with martyr complex (remember that text?). As for me the reason behind joining the army was a selfish one. I wanted to be a doctor since my childhood and knew that I couldn't afford the expense the education required so I joined to get my degree. But that's not the only reason. I also knew that I am not cut out for a quite life it a hospital or a clinic; I wanted to use my training to the fullest and what place can be better to do so than a battle field?

I don't know your past, Sherlock but that doesn't matter. I mean it definitely matters as a whole but I don't judge people based on their pasts. It's the way they are making their present that matters most. I, too, want to alter my past, alter each one of my mistakes, I bet most of us do but those mistakes teach us what we actually want, right? A person who has done only the right things in his life is NOT living his life in a right way or living at all. Making mistake is a part of life, it's a natural process to gain experience but repeating the same mistake is really moronic. So, if you ever try to repeat all those things which put your life at risk I swear I'll drag your sorry arse up here and mash up that over-sized brain of yours. You haven't seen the wrath of a Watson yet.

Remember the kid from the rehab I told you about? Turned out that he is not so bad after all. In his second letter he called me a 'moderately decent fellow'. Hah! He reminds me of you. It seems that I am a brat-magnet.

That case wasn't so bad, Sherlock. I mean killing the wife and her lover then sending their severed ears in a box is disturbing even for men like me! And it's not the criminals' fault that they can't satisfy you with their skills! You are Sherlock Holmes, after all, the only one in the world. And God, please don't start a class to teach wanna-be criminals how to be creative. However, I enjoyed the story (though your story telling is terrible) and looking forward to hear more. I am glad that you get to do what you do best, Sherlock and no matter how much you whine I know you are happy. Knowing that makes me happy too.

The pictures you sent were interesting, really intriguing, yeah. What's the story about that charred body? One of my mates really freaked out; he is a young lad, hasn't seen the full-on war yet. But do you know what I liked most? Your effort to make me feel happy. There aren't many people in my life who put an effort to do that. I appreciate it, Sherlock. More than you can imagine. Now, stop scowling.

I was just wondering that maybe we can share some other pictures too? You know, a bit more personal? Like your home or your brother or you? Oh, sod it. The thing is that I want to see you. I wanted to see you the day we first met over texts. And if anything happens I want to die a proud man knowing that I am better looking than you. So, what do you think, Sherlock? Will I get a glimpse of World's only Consulting Detective? Or do I have to satisfy myself imagining you as a grumpy Lucky Cat?

Tell me more about you. Your life, interests, things you do when you're not on a case, people you like- anything, everything. I wish I had the chance to meet you last Christmas, Sherlock. I miss London, you know. It's somehow your fault. I long for it now whereas it was just occasional homesickness before. I miss rain, I miss foggy nights, hell I even miss our cloudy gloomy London mornings too! Here in desert the sun is merciless, there is no warmth in this scorching heat, it only burns. But still I am content. I have these goofs who are like brothers to me and a brilliant friend who enjoys giving me off hand compliments and thinks that I am too dim to catch them. He is a snarky prick but I won't have him in any other way.

I know you have a penchant for recklessness but try to stay alive till I go home, alright? Write soon. Take care.

Yours,

John.

P.S. I am sending some of my group pictures. I won't tell you which one is me; you have to deduce it. I hope you won't mind.

~0~0~0~

It was raining. One of those common damp nights of London. Still knowing that someone far away missing it dearly made this night somewhat special. It was surprising how a mere matter of perspective could change something from unwanted to desirable. Sherlock slowly rose from his chair and stood before the window. It was an off night for him. Lestrade rang him earlier but the case was too dull to lure him. Now here he was in his dark room watching the water drops paving their ways down the smooth glass and thinking about a certain someone.

Sentiments, feelings -these were alien concepts to Sherlock. He trained to isolate himself from the things which only caused him pain in the past. He couldn't remember the last time he willingly stood in front of a camera, not after Mummy. But here he was giving in to some inane sentimental requests of a person who could see through the wall Sherlock built around himself. A person who not only chose to befriend Sherlock but went further stating that he would not have him in any other way.

"Idiot." A murmur dipped in fondness.

Sherlock put his palm on the window glass, absorbing the cold. He withdrew it a few seconds later. Lights from the outside highlighted his fingerprints on the glass. Sherlock wondered how John's fingerprints would look like. John asked Sherlock to identify him from the group photos he had sent but he didn't know that the detective already knew how John looked like. Shortly after knowing John Sherlock hacked Mycroft's computer and accessed the career file of John H. Watson. But even if Sherlock didn't know before he would have picked out John from the photos anyway. That honest open face, that brilliant smile could only belong to the brave, kind soldier who asked Sherlock to stay alive till he get back home. It was a promise, wasn't it? The thought of someone else making John happy with their compliments made Sherlock bristle but then again it was Sherlock whom John thought about while reading about them. John wouldn't get tired of him, John wouldn't leave him, right? Sherlock could only hope and wait for the day when John would fulfill his promise.

He stood there for a long time, lost in thoughts of the days that had gone, days that would come. And on his table a photograph of a young soldier with his sun kissed skin and warm smile illuminated the dark room with the glow that could only be compared with the warmth the fire emitted on a cold night like this.

~0~0~0~


	7. Chapter 7

Thank you guys for the follows. It always feels nice to hear from you. So, if you have a minute then please leave a review. Thanks again.. :) 3

John tensed instantly when he saw Murray coming his way. He was checking and updating some of the medical files of his mates and tried to get lost in them. He tried and succeeded to avoid the situation so far but not anymore. He knew he could not avoid the coming conversation with Murray forever but it made him uncomfortable nonetheless.

M: "Hey."

J: "Hey, Murr."

M: "So… updating, huh?"

J: "Yeah, yeah…dreadful job, all these minute details and all."

M: "Yeah…uh… so, you've met someone?"

John knew there was no avoiding this time.

J: "uh..I..uh..not like that. We're just friends, that's all."

M: "When you visited home this Christmas?"

J: "Yes, yeah, last Christmas. We met quite accidentally."

M: "Really? That's good, I guess."

J: "Yeah, I guess so."

John was just about to excuse himself when the next question came.

M: "You like this bloke, don't you?"

J: "What? No, I mean, yes I like him, I definitely do but not that way, you know."

M: "What way?"

J: "Jesus, Murr! Am I under some kind of interrogation?"

M: "I don't know. I just thought it's better to know my rival, that's all."

John wanted to bang his head in frustration.

J: "Look, Murr, there is nothing between me and Sherlock, honestly. An-and you and me…we're not gonna work. It was never serious between us and you know that too, right?"

M: "How do you know that? We never really gave it a chance, John. And I really doubt there's nothing between you two. I mean, have you seen your face when you read his letters?"

John Watson did not blush. Not at all.

J: "You're wild guessing, that's what you are doing now. But I really don't like to talk about it. And I don't think my personal life is up for discussion."

M: "Look, John, I like you and if there is nothing between you and that London bloke then I want you to give us another chance."

J: "Are you mental? We are in between a war, Bill! A bloody war! It's neither the place nor the time to start a fucking relationship."

John Watson did not use pun. None at all.

M: "That's bullshit. These sorts of things, they don't wait for place, time or excuses, they just happen, you know. Beat around the bush as long as you want but you're a goner, John Watson."

J: "What? No, no..I..of course not! What are you tal.."

John was interrupted.

"Hey, Watson, your love letter's here!"

~0~0~0~

Dear John,

Another failed attempt to be amusing as well as poetic proves the fact that you are functioning properly. Hence I am glad to know that you are safe.

John, I have learnt my lessons and therefore can assure you than I am not doing anything more than necessary which may put my life at risk. But I must say you have a very colourful vocabulary. However, do not exhausted your tiny brain worrying about me as you have more pressing matters at your hand, especially now you have someone else to satisfy your need to mother. I assume you enjoy his compliments as well. However, I must let you know that I do not enjoy when people compare me to others. I may not be an ideal person but intellectually I am superior than most and I certainly do not have anything in common with a seventeen year old dullard trapped in a rehab. If I were you I would not have even bothered to waste papers and ink on him but then again you are not me. But, "moderately decent fellow", really, John? I didn't know you were this much easy to please.

You have the most open and idiotic smile, do you know that? You are like an open book, John. If you had sent me a group picture with fifty people in it instead of five then also I would have picked you out without any effort. Also, you have a RAMC logo stitched on your uniform shirt, others don't. In that photograph where five of you are standing in front of a tent the guy next to you has some sort of romantic interest towards you. Yes John, I have deduced you and I know you are the second guy from left. All my life I have craved mysteries and now I am stuck with someone who looks just like his letters and smiles at the camera as if he is at a kitten adoption camp instead of a war. My life is a misery.

I do not know how you will be benefitted knowing about some tedious details about myself but as I'm a quite generous man I will grant you your wish. So, here are some:

I grew up in Sussex, have our home there.

I was home schooled after I failed to lower my I.Q. according to some of the schools' atrocious teaching plans.

I enrolled in Cambridge for studying Chemistry but had to quit for some reasons.

I have more knowledge in Organic Chemistry than most of the University professors. (In fact I have more knowledge in almost everything than most of the people).

I do experiments when I am not on a case. I have a steady flow of body parts from St. Barts; Molly ensures that.

I play the violin.

Sometimes I don't talk for days.

I hate doctors. But I may give some benefit of doubts to Army Doctors.

I am clinically diagnosed with Sociopathy but I prefer myself to be called a high-functioning sociopath.

I hate stupidity of any form or variety.

I do not have friends, I've got just one.

I am not 'grumpy' and I do not scowl.

I am a very nice and responsible person. I am even more interesting for prolonged acquaintanceship.

I hope these will be enough to quench your thirst.

You will receive a photograph of me along with some other pictures with this letter. But I absolutely refuse to send any photo of Mycroft. It seems you have an awefully great interest in my brother which is very suspicious to say the least. Firstly you asked me to thank him on your behalf then asked me to send his pictures, what is going on, John? Has he contacted you? Has he threatened you? Do not lie to me, John. Tell me at once if he has done something. Otherwise, I forbid you to have any kind of liaison with my arch enemy.

I wish I could see your finger prints. They are very interesting, unique signature of an individual. I wish I could see yours, for research purpose, of course. And I like to thank you, John for sharing your photographs with me. I very much appreciate it. I will keep them with utmost care. But do not expect me to stick them to the wall or frame them. I know you are capable of most atrocious imaginations.

Take care. Try not to lose your limbs but in case you lose a toe try to send it to me. I am in need of a human toe. And stop crying like a character from Victorian romantic novel; we will have more Christmases to meet. Until then keep writing to me.

Yours,

Sherlock.

P.S. Do you reciprocate his feelings as well?

~0~0~0~

_Shit._

_Holy fucking fuckity shit_. Those were the exact words that came to John's mind after seeing the first picture. In the photo a boy, yes, a Boy of eighteen or nineteen stood in front of a gigantic fireplace, wearing a suit, a bloody black suit with a purple shirt. But that's not all. It was the face that nailed it for John. Alabaster skin, high and insanely attractive cheekbones, dark curls were styled (_of course, it was styled! Everything was styled about this picture!) _in 'carefully careless' way, a cupid bow upper lip, a very pouty and plump lower lip. The boy was rather skinny but damn, was he tall. The only thing that matched with John's imagination with Sherlock was the slight arrogant frown on the boy's face. His one hand was stuck in his pocket and the other was rested on the back of a chair which might belong to Buckingham palace. Everything about this picture, about the room screamed highly posh elegance and in the middle of that stood Sherlock Holmes, regally, like a dark prince. _Was this even Sherlock?_ Of course it was! A guy who was named Sherlock, who had a brother named Mycroft would definitely look like this. What was John thinking?! John licked his dry lips, swallowed hard and ran his fingers through his disheveled hair subconsciously. His mind couldn't help but compare Sherlock's photo with his own and that thought left his flustered. Suddenly John was thankful that he didn't meet Sherlock at the Christmas Eve. John knew he had his share in good looks, the dozen proposals he got during his college years confirmed it but _this _was on some entirely other level. Sherlock Holmes was a bloody handsome man? Boy? with a genius mind and John was just plain John.

_Shit._

That was John's reaction after seeing the second photo. Sherlock wrote at the back of the photo: "Our ancestral home in Sussex where I grew up." _Sherlock grew up in..in a mansion?! Jesus slimey blimey fucking Christ!_ John's mother had a copy of Jane Austen's Pride and Prejudice where there was a sketch of Darcy's house in Pemberly. This photo brought back that childhood memory in the forefront of John's mind. He shouldn't be surprised because Sherlock's image perfectly matched with his house but still….._a mansion_?!

_Shit._

That was for the last picture. John was thoroughly dumbstruck by the previous two photos otherwise he would have uttered something nice about this picture. It was a photograph of a rainy night. It was taken from above. It showed a rain soaked street where the lights were mixed with the falling drops, painting different patterns of modern art using the street as a canvas. It was still pouring when the picture was taken. Something warm swelled in John's heart and his chest felt clenched. Suddenly he realized that his breathing had gone heavy and his eyes pricked. Sherlock had sent him London rain in a photograph. He sent John a piece of home. He sent it to make John smile.

John flopped down his bed holding the pictures and the letter over his chest. His head was making this buzzing sound and he closed his eyes.

This was the person whom John met by chance and who instantly captured John's interest; this was the person who gave John hope; this was the person with whom John wanted to make memories; this was the person who, in spite of being thousand miles apart, tried his best to make John happy, like John's happiness mattered to him, like John mattered; this was Sherlock Holmes.

This letter was so un-Sherlock like. John knew that Sherlock was gradually opening up but after reading this letter John didn't know what to make of it. It was not only frank but also there was something else. Something which John didn't _dare_ to pin-point. Questions were crawling around John's mind. Sherlock seemed really furious about that rehab kid, surely John wanted to rile him up a little but he never expected that Sherlock would be this angry. It almost felt like…felt like Sherlock was jealous! _Was Sherlock jealous?_ No, that couldn't be the matter. Sherlock who lived in a mansion, was world's only Consulting Detective, looked like straight from a fashion magazine could not possibly be jealous about John writing letters to someone else. No, that was an absurd idea, right? But there were no other apparent reason for his irritation. John was utterly confused.

In the letter Sherlock shared some tid-bits about his life. He didn't have to just because John asked him to but he did anyway. Knowing Sherlock it was not only surprising but also _endearing_. But those facts made John even more confused and a bit worried. _What did Sherlock mean that he didn't have friends? Was John his only friend? Sherlock thought himself as a sociopath? Was that a joke or something? Why didn't he talk for days? Didn't someone make him talk? Wasn't there anyone in Sherlock's life who was bothered by it? His brother? What in God's name Sherlock did with a 'steady flow of body parts'? And who the hell was Molly? She couldn't be Sherlock's girlfriend, he was gay, right? May be the house keeper?_ John groaned with frustration and made a mental note to ask all these things in his next letter.

Then Sherlock complimented about his smile. His bloody smile! He complimented about such a mundane thing! Well, the compliment was given in a very Sherlock-way, of course, but that didn't make it any less surprising. And the whole thing left John flushed. He was grateful that he was alone at the moment.

But what floored John was the part where Sherlock (again, off handedly) wished that he could see John's finger prints. To anyone else it would seem bizarre or even creepy but it filled John's stomach with butterflies. First of all to know that Sherlock wanted to know John beyond his letters was a great feeling but wanting to see something which was only John, raw, pure and unique, without any external merit was what thrilled John most. For John the emotion behind that desire was so intense that he actually had trouble breathing. He took deep breaths to even out his accelerated heart beats. And when he managed to calm down a bit he realized a shocking thing. He was a goner, wasn't he?

_Shit._

~0~0~0~

_Wait! What did Sherlock mean by reciprocating Murr's feelings? _

_Shit. Shit. Shit._

~0~0~0~


	8. Chapter 8

A speciale note: I am re-uploading this chapter as something went wrong with the previous upload. I wasn't aware of it till Suealpacamama, very kindly, pointed it out to me. I should have checked after uploading but I didn't and I am sorry for it. I case something like this happen again,you guys can let me immediately or you can visit my AO3 account (A_Sherlocked_Girl) where you will find this series. Sorry for the trouble.

Suealpacamama: A special thanks to you for taking the trouble of reading the chapter even when it was a complete mess. Hugs and cookies for you, sweetheart! 3

Sendai: Thank you so much for you kind words! John and Sherlock, in this story, are just how I imagine them. Cookies for your lovely comment which made my day!

Hope this time the uploading goes okay!

"You are expected to spend the night here."

"And what deluded assumption made you think that you have a right to boss me around?"

"You have a concussion, Sherlock. You need to stay here for the night."

"As if explaining the obvious will make me convinced."

"I don't need to convince you about anything. I was just trying to hold a civilized conversation with my brother who insists upon acting like a problem child. But it seems that you will prefer doing this in a difficult way."

"Which is?"

"Your letter has arrived."

"What? Where is it?"

"Where it was addressed, of course. You don't expect me to carry it around, do you?"

"Arrange my discharge immediately."

"Oh? I don't think that will be possible. Perhaps I can let our good Doctor know that you are currently recovering from your injury at St. Barts and therefore will not be able to communicate for some time."

"DON'T YOU DARE TO DO SUCH THING, YOU NOSY SCUM!"

"Good gracious! The Army influence is certainly making an impact over your lexical properties, I see!"

"Mycroft…. Don't."

"Then don't give me reason to, Sherlock."

"…."

"He is different."

"Sherlock…."

"No. He. Is. Different. I know it. I have made the conclusion based upon various data."

"And pray tell how do you know that?"

"He…..he calls me his friend."

"… Oh, Sherlock."

"He calls me his friend and doesn't even want any favour for doing so. He is kind to me despite all the not-so-good things I say to him."

"…"

"He doesn't think I am a…. _freak_. He thinks I am genius, he…he thinks what I do is good, that it makes me special."

"Are you su…"

"John is different, Mycroft."

"I hope so, brother mine, I hope so."

~0~0~0~

Sherlock ultimately spent the night at the hospital but made sure Mycroft would arrange his discharge at the earliest in the morning. He also coerced his brother to make another promise.

When Mycroft's car came to pick up Sherlock he almost jumped into the backseat. He was eager to see whether Mycroft kept his word or not. There it was. On the expensive leather of the seat a battered envelope. Letter from John.

~0~0~0~

Dear Sherlock,

How are you? Are you taking care of yourself or driving your brother up the wall with your reckless little stunts? Yes, I feel very sorry for your brother; I am sure he is a nice man and I'd very much like to meet him in person. So, how does it feel? Nice, huh? It's payback for mocking my writing, you berk, so deal with it. And Sherlock, people don't have arch enemies, not even you.

I didn't mean to compare you with anyone. To be honest I have never met anyone like you and I highly doubt I ever will again. I certainly do not compare you with Richard (the poor kid you seem to loath) but why are you so angry with him anyway? Afraid that he may steal the charming Army Doc? Fret not, I am completely satisfied with my own brat. And I know this one bloke from London who gives the brattiest snarkiest compliments which I've gotten used to. I don't like the bland ones anymore.

Now, I have a very serious question to ask you, Sherlock and answer me honestly. Is this a recent picture of you? If so then when was the last time you ate? Yes, I know that's actually two questions, now shut up and answer. No, wait, there is more. How old are you, really? Are you even an adult? And are you into some kind of modeling or something? You look like a bloody fashion model! Jesus, now I wish I had sent you a bit nicer picture of me; you have made me fucking self conscious with your suit, purple shirt and those cheekbones! Sodding Christ, Sherlock, you're bloody handsome! But thank you for the photographs. It really feels nice to finally put a face to that posh git-y voice. I must admit that I never would have guessed that you would look this good. I withdraw my comment about you looking like a lucky cat.

So, you grew up in a mansion, huh? Nice. It's really common to have friends who live in mansions, look like supermodels but in reality happen to be the world's only Consulting Detective. It's no big deal, I mean, I have dozens of them actually. I just thought you would look better in a Castle. You know, the dark prince emerging from the dungeons deep, that kind of thing. Jesus! Seriously, Sherlock, do you think it's nice to kill a lad with only photographs? My jaw literally dropped to the floor! Now it's not working properly for hanging loose for too long.

About my pictures, I completely forgot about that RAMC logo which once again proves why I'm the doctor and you are detective. That guy you deduced having feelings for me, that's Murr. I met him at the training camp. He is a very good friend of mine. We used to fool around, it was never serious though. It never developed into something else. There is nothing between us now. I am completely single, unattached, which is fine for me, by the way.

I am happy that you liked my smile. God, that sounded awful, isn't it? But at least there is something in me for you to like. And I am not like an open book, nope. It's just that you read me better and I don't really hide anything from you. Just John, remember? And did you just call me cute in your twisted off handed way, you tosser? I think you did! The great Sherlock Holmes finds this humble soldier cute?! Though I prefer being called dashing and macho but I shouldn't push my luck now, should I? So, I better be happy with what I am getting from Your Grace. But jokes apart, I am a simple man and quite easy to please but it's your compliment I enjoy the most, Sherlock. Have no doubt about it.

Thank you for sharing bits of your life with me. I didn't really expect you to tell me those but I really appreciate it. Now, that being said I have some questions to ask, so brace yourself for the rapid fire-

What did you mean by clinically diagnosed with Sociopathic personality? And why the hell do you think yourself a sociopath?

Why don't you talk for days? Isn't there anyone to make you talk? Doesn't anyone get bothered by it?

What on earth do you do with a 'steady flow of body parts?' What kind of creepy experiments do you perform, you mad genius? (St. Bart is where I got my degree, by the way)

Who is Molly? How does she help with the body parts? Is she your house keeper? Lab assistant? She has a nice name. Your girlfriend, may be?

Am I your only friend, Sherlock? Before you start scowling let me tell you that I am not judging you. I am just asking. I'd be honoured to be your only friend.

Okay, that's it. These will do for now. And, Sherlock, I know you were kicked out from you school for that smart-arse attitude of yours. So, no need to fabricate the truth. I am glad that Army Doctors are somewhat excluded from your wrath for doctors in general. I express my gratitude on behalf of them.

Okay, now I want to say some things which may sound sappy but humour me, yeah? Sherlock, you are the only person in my life who takes the trouble to make me happy. I may have friends, may have a sibling but when it comes to truly care for my well being there is none but you. I call you names, make fun of you sometimes but never doubt my affection, my genuine care for you. I am very much aware of all those efforts you take to make my war days a little bit easier. I want to beat the hell out of those people who thought you were a Sociopath, who put the idea in your head. This is the biggest lie I have ever heard. You care for me without even knowing me in person, Sherlock! Do you have any idea how amazing, how generous that is? Despite your snide remarks or whining you never really turned down any of my requests so far (except for taking care of yourself). Do you think I am stupid enough to overlook those things? It doesn't take a genius to see your kindness and I consider myself exceptionally fortunate to be your friend. As for 'prolonged acquaintance' you are stuck with me because I'm not going to let you get rid of me.

There are nights when I fall asleep watching the London rain photo you've sent me. I do that not only because I miss it but I want to feel the intensity, the emotion behind sending the picture. All of the three pictures have left me awestruck but that one has touched me the most. You sent me a piece of home, Sherlock. A home that was fading into meaninglessness before you came. You sent it just because I told you about missing it. I am never good with words, never really cared about it before but now I wish I had the wisdom of words to express my heartfelt gratitude towards you. I am lucky to have met you, Sherlock Homes.

I wish I could watch you play the violin. Do you play professionally? I used to play the clarinet a little while in the high school. Do you have a smiling picture of yours? Can you send it to me? I need it for experimental purpose, 'of course'.

I don't have anything worth sending you back which may entertain you a little; don't really have the options too. So, if I miss a limb or especially a toe in the action I'll definitely try to carry them back and make sure you get them, promise.

I know you won't listen but please take care of yourself; you are much more useful while intact. Eat more, you are far too skinny to be considered healthy. Your supermodel look won't get spoiled with a few more pounds. Write to me soon.

Yours,

John.

~0~0~0~

To say that Sherlock was fuming after reading the first paragraph of the letter would be the understatement of the year. He wanted to scream and punch something. He wanted to punch the driver because he looked like Mycroft; he wanted to break the windows, tear the leathers because somehow the car also looked like Mycroft. It was like Mycroft's poncy face was hologramed everywhere. And why did John have to pick his brother to take the revenge? What was wrong with John? And why the hell was he so obsessed with Mycroft? Sherlock was already cranky for spending the night at the hospital, now this just added fuel to that fire. He thought about not to read it anymore for now but it was John's letter and whom was he kidding? So, Sherlock took deep breaths, cursed Mycroft, thought about cursing John too but decided against it, cursed Mycroft some more and started reading again.

So, John never met anyone like Sherlock before? Of course he didn't. He was Sherlock Holmes, after all. But that was not important. The main thing was that this stupid Richard fellow was not important to John; John didn't like his compliment that much. Imbecile; as if he ever stood a chance to beat Sherlock in impressing John. A triumphant smirk appeared on Sherlock's face.

But soon that smirk disappeared and Sherlock's complexion changed from marble white to white-ish beet red. John thought he was handsome? He looked good? But then why did John think he was into fashion modeling? (Only John could think of such atrocity) If Sherlock was handsome, according to John, then how on earth could he resemble those half starved human mannequins? Wasn't that Oxymoronic? And cheekbones? What cheekbones? What about cheekbones? Sherlock's stomach suddenly felt funny. He felt a new and awkward tingling sensation throughout his body.

Sherlock wasn't really sure how John would react seeing his childhood home. His past experiences taught him that people didn't always take it nicely that his parents were filthy rich. He would never have sent it if John didn't ask for it. But he was relieved to know that John was not only okay with it but he even made jokes about it! Sherlock snorted reading that 'dark prince' part. Although he actually liked imagining himself as one but would die before admitting it to John.

Sherlock felt irritated, agitated and jealous- all in superlative forms- after reading about Murr. Murr, what kind of pathetic excuse for a name was that?! Murr, not even 'Murder', only the half of it, like a failed suicide attempt. Pathetic, utterly pathetic. John deserved far better than someone called _Murr_. Why did John even like him in the first place? He was not as handsome as….as a supermodel (Now, where did that come from?!); he didn't have cheekbones like Sherlock. He looked stupid and pretentious and…and like a Murr.

Sherlock once again took a break from his reading and cursing. He wouldn't be able to read properly right now. He felt irrationally, insanely jealous and he hated himself for feeling like this. But what could he do? This was John and John was supposed to be…. _his_. Lately in his every letter John wrote "yours", so John _was_ his, wasn't he? His only friend. Sherlock closed his eyes, took several deep, really deep, breaths and went through the periodic table to calm his nerves so that he could read on.

Molly was his girlfriend? What the hell?! Didn't John know? Sherlock was sure John knew that girls were not his area; although he didn't really have enough experience to draw a definite conclusion that he was gay either. But Molly and him?! From where did John get these bizarre ideas? Or was this his way of confirming the obvious? Was this even a letter or a torture technique in disguise? Sherlock was beyond frustrated now.

Sappy part? John wrote a _specially_ sappy part? Was there no end of his misery today? God, he should have spent the whole day at St. Bart's. _That_ would have been better than _this_. But it seemed that Fate somehow took mercy on Sherlock and his cranky, bite-y mood soon changed into something else. That tingling sensation returned full on.

. . .

After finishing the letter Sherlock flopped down on the couch (he returned home at some point while reading the letter). His head felt dizzy and he realized a blissful blankness was approaching his brain. Words like 'affection', 'care', 'amazing' were revolving around him. John didn't think he was a sociopath; John thought he was kind; John thought himself lucky to be his friend; John considered Sherlock his home….. Sherlock's brain was shutting off. Too much information to process. Too many emotions to feel. His mind was halting to a standstill.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock didn't know for how long he had been lying on the couch but when he opened his eyes the late afternoon sun greeted him. He was in his Mind Palace this entire time. He got up from the couch and dragged himself to the loo. He felt so damn tired. Sherlock splashed some cold water on his face and looked in the mirror for a long moment.

_John thought Sherlock was his home. _

~0~0~0~


	9. Chapter 9

**HauntingMelodyofaNightmare**: Thank you so much for the review! Yes, this story is the second part of the Trilogy I mentioned. It is already finished and I am currently writing the third part. I just wish and hope that this story as well as the series keeps you interested and will not disappoint you. Hope to hear from you again. 3 :)

Thanks to you all for reading this story. Reviews never fail to brighten my day. :)

**~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~0~**

John swiped his thumb across Sherlock's face. His letter hadn't arrived yet. It was taking more than its usual time, leaving John restless. Not that he got much time to contemplate his relationship with Sherlock but whenever he thought about his own letter and how bold it was he regretted it; the delay in Sherlock's letter only fueled that anxiety.

He was about to go to another patrolling tonight and he wanted to take Sherlock's photo with him. There were some boys who always kept their families' or friends' pictures with them all the time. John didn't have that luxury before. Neither he liked to keep his dead parents with him nor did he wish to keep Harry's picture. They were not that sort of siblings. And almost all of his friends were his army mates, so that was out of the question also. But now he had Sherlock and John wanted to keep something of him…..just in case. Patrolling wasn't necessarily dangerous, it was more of a routine but nothing was predictable in a war. If anything happened John wanted to have something with him which was precious to him. But he was also worried about losing it or accidentally damaging it. These pictures and Sherlock's letters- these were everything John could call his true possession. After hesitating some more he decided against taking it with him and tucked the photo into the box where he kept Sherlock's letters. He would come back for them. To them. To Sherlock.

Next morning the letter came.

~0~0~0~

John,

I give you my word to try and refrain myself from giving you any generous and critical commentary about your poor writing skill if you stop mentioning my brother in every letter you write. What an idea to avenge, indeed. I didn't know you have it in you, John Watson. You never cease to amaze me. You should seek your future career in politics. Now, that being said, I hope you will stop your juvenile effort to rile me up. And I do have an arch enemy.

I must apologize for the delay of sending this letter. My Mind Palace needed some re-arranging and it took more time than usual. Also, I had a minor accident while chasing a very incompetent and stereotypical criminal who thought he was Jack the Reaper reincarnate. How dull and boring.

Stop fishing for compliments, John. It doesn't suit you. I don't find you charming or fascinating or intriguing. I find you strange and mildly interesting. You are an idiot. And of course, I do not fear about a seventeen year old imbecile stealing you. I deem you worthier than that. If assigning myself to be your 'own brat' helps to keep you entertained and away from such people then I am ready to make this sacrifice. I consider it my duty to safeguard my friend from any harm's way. God, the things I do for you, John.

That picture I sent you was indeed my recent picture. It was taken for a case, of course. Do not delude yourself thinking that I had willfully stood in front of the camera because a certain naïve doctor asked for a photograph. Now, as for my eating habits, I do not eat while on case; it slows me down. I have finished a case yesterday after three days which means I will eat today. My physique doesn't matter to me as long as I am healthy enough to solve a case or conduct an experiment. Mind is everything John, the rest is just transport. And I absolutely refuse to dignify your doubt about my adulthood with an answer.

A fashion model? Really, John? Are your imaginations always so creative or have you been taking special classes? However, you must know that calling someone 'handsome' then comparing them to some willfully famished people is not really the same thing. Therefore I am not sure what to think of it as prior to you no one had used that particular adjective while describing me. But it sounds better than being called 'boney-faced freak' (although how calling someone boney-faced can be considered rude I cannot comprehend as we are literally 'boney-faced'). Anyway, I am glad to know that my photograph had reached its goal by making you satisfied.

I grew up in a mansion because I had no other option. Having rich parents do not always help the situation. In my case it jeopardized my life more often than not. I've never had any problem with being hated but it annoyed me whenever the reason behind that bitterness was my parents' wealth, not my deeds. Although getting whatever I wanted for my experiments, despite the price, was one of the few perks of being born with a silver spoon I enjoyed as a child.

What on earth made you think that I liked your smile? Do you not know the meaning of 'idiotic'? I call people stupid on their faces and they want to punch me, I call you idiot and you take it as a compliment! What are you, John Watson? You make me question my every previous notion. Why can't I make you angry? Make you hate me? Why do you always mess everything up and make me blank? What would I do with you, John…

Alright, now, I think I should answer all the insipid questions you have asked me in your last letter and demanded my answer. However, I must say, in future try to make your questions less tedious to have mercy on a poor soul that I am. Now the answers-

When I was eight my father took me to one of the most renowned Psychoanalysts of England who, after tormenting me for a month or so, gave his verdict by declaring me a Sociopath. My father was satisfied to know that his suspicion was true. My mother, however, never accepted it, kept telling me not to pay heed to such nonsense. She never believed the truth till the day she died. Her affection for me veiled her reasoning abilities. However, I do not consider myself a sociopath; I am a 'high-functioning' sociopath. There is a difference, John.

I do not talk unless I have something substantial to say. I am not a babbling fool who goes on and on about how perfect the weather is or how fast the sun moves around the earth. I have things to think, to analyze. It takes time to properly categorize the Mind Palace. And I live with Mycroft and Nestor. Why would they be bothered if I do not talk on a daily basis? I hardly see them daily.

I deal with crimes every day, John, and most of them are murders. I have to conduct various experiments to determine the method of the crimes. Apart from my cases, my experiments mostly involve Organic Chemistry of which I am particularly fond. And many of these experiments need human body parts; despite the popular belief I don't actually kill and store bodies in my freezer hence the dependency on the lab.

Molly is an intern at St. Bart's. Works in the morgue lab. She has a very common name. I am gay or so I suspect. You are still tactlessly curious about knowing my 'romantic' life; I wonder why….

On this note I think I should inform you that though I am biologically required to 'toss off' (as you very crudely insinuated) at certain intervals but I do not do it often enough to deserve to be called a 'tosser'. I do not possess a starved libido like yours. Set your facts straight.

Yes, John, you are my only friend. The only one I've ever had. I hate to repeat myself, so do keep up.

Now, Murr. It is not a wonder that you two only 'fooled around' with each other as hardly anything serious can be expected from a person who is called 'Murr'. I know your expectations about yourself are plebian but finding a Murr to explore the overrated fantasy of sexual activities is pathetic even for you. What have you seen in him, anyway? You deserve so much better, John, can you not understand that? You deserve someone who would be consistent, would take you seriously instead of fooling around. Someone who looks like supermodels (you seem to like them), someone with an interesting name, someone who does not look foolish in a photograph. He doesn't even have cheekbones, for God's sake! You deserve so much better than him. You deserve someone who is worthy of you, John. You say I make you self conscious; you become happy about some underrated compliments, you think it is a surprise that I find something interesting in you. How can you say such things? How can you not see how fascinating you are? I know I will regret being this much honest and opened up but you seem to make me plebian with all these rustic emotions and urge to express. Damn you, John Watson for making me mundane. But don't you dare to underestimate yourself, ever. Sometimes I say some things which you may not deserve but there is a reason behind my waiting impatiently and eagerly for your letter every week.

The purpose of my sending the rain picture was not to give you something over which you can brood at your leisure. It is a reminder that you have to come back. You have a home to come back. You are not allowed to die.

Don't keep me waiting for your letter. Write soon.

Yours,

Sherlock.

~0~0~0~

In these past few months while receiving Sherlock's letters John stopped breathing so many times that he had become a professional in clinical death now and that practice was the only thing that kept him alive when he stopped breathing- after finishing the letter- which seemed like for an eternity. At last he released the air with a whoosh and began to ponder,_ slowly_ this time, what did he read.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The letter started in an unusually usual Sherlockian way. John knew that Sherlock would take the bait about Mycroft and he did exactly that. The knowledge filled John with childish giddiness. It was like scoring over the genius. But then came the roller coaster ride.

The news of Sherlock's injury shook John up. He knew what Sherlock did demanded a certain level of risk but it suddenly dawned upon him how it could cost Sherlock his life. Any wound could turn into something fatal. Anything could happen anytime. John had seen too many deaths to know how fragile life itself was. Life's existence was like water drops on a leaf, always on the verge of falling into nothingness. The realization hit John like a freight train and he shuddered visibly and went to keep reading.

Wait! What the hell a Mind Palace was? Couldn't the git be a little less cryptic? How easy it was to go from worrying for Sherlock to wanting to smack him on the head.

Oh, sod it. How could John smack the nutter (on the head only, mind) when he decided to be so obliviously endearing. Sherlock practically confessed that be liked being John's 'own brat' (John put special emphasis on '_own_'). Of all the things John had regretted writing in his last letter this was one of them. Seeing Sherlock accepting it so readily was beyond John's expectation.

John was really astonished to know that no one called Sherlock handsome before! In fact it seemed that Sherlock didn't even think himself good looking. How could that even be possible? John was so sure that with _that_ looks people probably fawned around Sherlock. But 'boney faced freak'? Seriously? John suddenly had an urge to punch someone. He also realized that Sherlock often received these types of name calling the way he casually ignored and rationalized it. And John was no better than them; he called Sherlock names too, no matter how innocent those were. John felt the need to clarify some things to Sherlock.

So, Sherlock was bullied for having rich parents. Well, this John could understand totally. He was at the other end of the stick after all. No, not the bully-bullied stick. The other one where children from a somewhat humble background fell prey to the bullies. This also gave John a faint idea about why Sherlock was home schooled. He made a mental note to repeat the topic in his next letter.

Then came the part reading which the first breathless moment of this letter occurred. John could understand Sherlock's annoyance seeing how John interpreted his twisted compliment; he could understand Sherlock's denial about liking John's smile. But what he did not understand was that how could he make Sherlock's world upside down. He didn't understand how he became an exception for Sherlock. And what did Sherlock mean by not succeeding to make John angry or…or _hate_ him?! Hate him? Hate Sherlock? Oh, boy! Sherlock had no idea, did he?

Fuck.

Sherlock's own father considered him a sociopath? What was he, an evil step-dad or something? And what disturbed John even more was that Sherlock actually believed it, had been believing it since he was a mere child. Believed that he was incapable of caring, loving. John wondered what sort of twisted horrible childhood Sherlock had. John would have to make him see how wrong he was.

Okay, so Sherlock practically had no one in his life to share his thoughts. There was no one who would nag him to eat or to talk or to do whatever sane humans did. That boy was lonely in every sense in the world and still he tried to take John's depression, his alienation away. John felt a burning sensation behind his eyes and promptly clenched shut them.

Despite popular belief?! Surely people didn't think Sherlock killed and stocked his fridge with body parts. Surely it was another one of Sherlock's dry humours. Surely, right?

John _felt_ his golden face turned purple (he didn't think a blush would look red on such a tanned skin like his, so he opt for the next best idea- purple; if that was also the colour of Sherlock's shirt then that was purely a coincidence). John didn't know why he suddenly felt like a blushing virgin about the way Sherlock deadpanned about John's curiosity towards Sherlock's 'romantic' whereabouts. He hastily moved on to the next part, not wanting to think how amused Sherlock must felt.

Did John think he was blushing before? Well, he wasn't. He was blushing NOW, although his face resembled more of a person who was having a heart attack than blushing. He choked on his saliva, tongue, uvula, tonsils and everything which was or wasn't chokable (huh?) while reading that particular section. John couldn't believe someone could _actually_ talk about their…uh..their self gratifying habits in such a casual way! But apparently if that someone was a certain mad genius then they could. Calling each other 'tosser', 'wanker' or other urban slangs was really common around John's age group and in army they were like endearments. Then why the bloody hell Sherlock had to go and make John this much embarrassed?! That little shit. Wait, Sherlock did know that these were just meaningless name calling, right? He did understand that John didn't insinuate anything, right? Right? God, what if Sherlock didn't know? And considering Sherlock and his upbringing there was a fair chance that he didn't…. Christ fucking Jesus! John began to take very very deep breaths and tried not to think what sort of explanation Sherlock would have given if John ever called him BAMF. No, absolutely not. John would not think about that. Nope. Never in hell. He also would not stop and think why reading about Sherlock's…er…wanking increased his body temperature. No way.

Here, John had to take a break to murmur some profanities to some blasted fate which made John interested in Sherlock, of all people.

After a moment or two John started to read again with a sweaty and harassed face. But soon that expression morphed into something else. Nothing could have prepared John for what he read.

~0~0~0~

_Sherlock thinks I am fascinating. Sherlock thinks I am more deserving. Sherlock thinks I underestimate myself. Sherlock thinks someone needs to be worthy to have me. Sherlock eagerly waits for my letter. Sherlock thinks I have a home to come back. Sherlock thinks…I am worthy of someone like….like….Sherlock. Sherlock thinks I deserve him….Sherlock…_

~0~0~0~

London never felt so far away before.

~0~0~0~


	10. Chapter 10

I am extremely sorry for the lack of updates for so long. I am facing a massive writing block currently, and that depressing me to no end. I'm brooding, plain and simple. As I told you before, I am still writing the third part of this series and just started another Johnlock with a Mute!John. But now, it seems that my brain has stopped working. It's a very disturbing feeling. So...um...I guess I should leave you to enjoy the read now. But know that I'm really sorry for not uploading sooner.

**HauntingMelodyofaNightmare**\- I can't thank you enough for you kind, positive and lovely words. The support I get from all of you helps me loads to get through self-doubting moments. Your words made my day. Thank you so much! 3

**ramen-luver101**\- I am so glad that you liked this version of our boys. Thank you! 3

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Sherlock needed a smoke. He desperately needed it.

He was pacing almost frantically, evaluating, re-evaluating every evidence, every minute clue he gathered on this damnable case. It should have been one of Sherlock's notable triumphs but it wasn't because Anderson still existed. According to Sherlock Anderson was such a creature which was put on this earth only to confirm the fact that stupidity could be limitless. Anderson was someone who could single handedly turn an almost-solved case into a possible-cold one because one fine morning he decided to bump into someone on his way to the evidence archive, trip and drop the forensic evidences along with many and lost it. Bump-trip-drop-lost. Like a circus monkey performing a trick. That bloody ignoramus. Damn him. Sherlock knew that was an intentional bump and the evidences were stolen but he was not going to forgive that halfwit for having a weak balance. So, damn him again.

Sherlock tried to read John's letters for a while. This was his new way to calm himself down from a violent fit of agitation or to clear his mind. But it seemed tonight he needed something more to bring back his focus. He ran out of his nicotine patches yesterday and his weekly quota for cigarettes was complete long ago. But Sherlock needed something. Needed something to ground him. John's letter wasn't due for another week. Why couldn't that idiot write more frequently? Damn him, too. Sherlock huffed and finally slumped down on the couch. '_Well, bless John, actually'_, he grumbled, '_I can't even curse that goof_ _without feeling horrible'_. His mind wandered away for a moment remembering John's picture- with his bright smile, golden hair and tatty army tee. Standing with his fellow soldiers. Standing with someone's arm draped around his broad firm shoulder. An arm that was attached to another creature named Murr. With a jolt Sherlock remembered, again, that he needed a smoke. Now more desperately than before.

Just when he was about to take his violin out of its case to play, or more accurately, to torture that poor instrument until he could channel some of his irritation out, his phone rang. It was a good thing that scowl could not harm physically otherwise Sherlock's phone would have been gone and knocking on heaven's door right now.

Sherlock preferred to text and he made sure that everyone who had any reason to contact him knew this fact. They were allowed to call him if only someone was dying _interestingly_ or if Lestrade required him immediately with at least an eight scorer case. People who dared to ignore this at first were now thought twice before even to text him. Sherlock's verbal bashing was legendary after all. The only person who never paid any heed to these was another Holmes, Mycroft Homles, to be precise. Well, damn him, too. In fact damn all, except John.

Sherlock scowled at the phone some more and picked it up with his thumb and index like a dead rat. An unknown number. An unknown international number. His scowl deepened (if that was even possible). Suddenly Sherlock whipped his head at the clock and with a moment's hesitation received the call.

~0~0~0~

"Hello?"

"Sherlock?"

"… John?"

"ye-yeah, it' me. Hi."

"…"

"Sherlock? Hello?"

"Yes, John, I'm here."

"So…uh…how are you? You had an accident, are you alright now?"

"I'm perfectly well now, it was just a mild concussion. Thank you. You?"

"Oh, that's fine, I'm fine. I'm good. Everything is great, yeah."

"Very well."

"Um…uh..I'm not disturbing or anything, am I?"

"No, not at all."

"You-you don't sound alright. May be I should call later or something?"

"I didn't know you were allowed to call."

"Wh-yeah, of course we are allowed to call. It's not just that freq-"

"Then why didn't you call sooner?"

"What? Oh…uh…it's just…I didn't think..that-"

"What didn't you think, John? You didn't think of calling me before? It never occurred to you?"

"Hold on, hold on. Hey, it's not like that, it's just…oh God, it's that I thought it wouldn't be a good idea and our ba-"

"Then why are you calling now?"

"Jesus, you won't let me complete a single sentence, will you? My base doesn't have a direct line. I'm at our main base now. We have a direct international line here. So, I thought…uh.."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"I wanted to call Harry, okay? I wanted to call her then I thought maybe I just give you a call."

"…"

"Hello? Sherlock?"

"Liar."

"What?"

"You are lying."

"What are you talking about?"

"You were not going to call your sister."

"What? No, that's not….how do you know?"

"Because you did not made this much effort to get a direct line at 6am in the morning, fully knowing that your sister may not be available to answer you at the dead of the night considering her drinking habits. You intended to call only me."

"…..Oh, that's quite..uh.. wait! How the hell do you know its morning in here? How do you know my time?"

"Er…I may have a clock set at your time zone somewhere in the house."

"Ooooh, a clock on my time zone. Somewhere in the house, huh?"

"You're a human John, not a parrot."

"Riiiiiiiight. So, that's for a case, of course?"

"Obviously."

"Yes, obviously."

"Shut up, John. No need to laugh at me."

"No, I'm not. I'm not laughing at you, Sherlock. It's just….It is probably the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me."

"No, it's not."

"You're adorable."

"I am NOT. Take back your words, right now."

"No, I won't"

"You are an idiot."

"Just like you're my own brat?"

"obviously."

"….."

"….."

"I missed you. I didn't call you before because I didn't want to miss you more."

"….Then why this time?"

"I missed you more. I needed to hear your voice."

"I am glad that you called, John."

"Yeah, me too, me too."

"I….er…I'm not going anywhere this Christmas or New Year, if you were wondering."

"Of course you aren't"

"What?"

"You're not leaving London. Who else gonna receive me at the airport otherwise?"

"You are not a parcel John that I have to receive."

"Yes, git, I am a parcel and you're bloody gonna receive me when I come home."

"I'll consider it."

"Hell you will, You tos..er..toddler."

"Toddler?"

"yea-yeah, toddler. You are a toddler."

"John, are you hit on the head?"

"Yes, the day I decided to text you back."

"…."

"Thank God, I could make you snort, at least."

"I do not snort."

"Obviously. Hey..listen, I gotta go now. We are not really allowed to take this long a call, so…uh…I should go now."

"Oh. Will you call again?"

"I can't promise anything but I will try the next time I come here. But that may not happen soon."

"I will wait."

"…..Sherlock, I…um…I wish…uh…."

"What?"

"Nothing…uh..I should go now, yeah."

"John, wait."

"Yeah?"

"This doesn't mean you can skip your next letter. I still want that letter next week."

"No way! I thought I could trade that off with this call. Shit."

"Shut up."

"Alright, alright. Now, I seriously need to end this call before I'm screwed. Take care, Sherlock. Write to me as often as you can. And stay just as you are, alright? I'll write to you so-"

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I missed you, too."

"…...Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John."

~0~0~0~

John stood at the phone booth long after the call ended, clenching, unclenching his jaw. He tried to swallow down the ache that was forming in his throat. He knew once he heard Sherlock's voice things would get more difficult, he knew that very well but he couldn't stop himself. After Sherlock's last letter he needed to feel Sherlock somehow. It was almost a physical need; a thirst. Words scribbled on a paper weren't enough to quench that. Calling was the best option he had; he needed to feel Sherlock near him. But now when he placed the receiver on its slot the distance seemed to get doubled between London and Afghan desert. John never felt this much alone before. There were so many things he couldn't tell him. John couldn't tell him he slept with Sherlock's letter that night when he received it last time; he couldn't tell him how he wanted to keep Sherlock's photo with him when he went to the field; he couldn't tell him how overwhelmed he felt knowing that Sherlock kept a watch showing his time zone and needed to cover his trembling emotions with teasing. John couldn't tell him so many things. He wanted to call right back, again; wanted to talk for hours, listen to Sherlock's voice for hours. Instead John did what he was supposed to do. He turned back, squared his slouching shoulder, clenched his jaw, gave a nod to his inner self and walked away, like the perfect soldier that he was.

He desperately needed a smoke.

~0~0~0~


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock was feeling extremely fidgety. He never needed that smoke the day John called him. John's voice was enough to sate him for a few days. Hell, all the things John said aloud and the rest which he conveyed through his silence were enough to sate Sherlock for a month. But here he was, feeling restless and fidgety because it'd been almost three weeks, and still John's letter hadn't arrived yet. He had told John that he wouldn't take the phone call as the substitution of his due letter then why the delay? Sherlock wasn't a patient man, and if anyone told him before that one day he would wait for a mere letter this eagerly he would have deduced the life out of that baboon. But then again John was the exception of everything in Sherlock's life and that idiot worth it.

When Sherlock couldn't bear the tension anymore, couldn't find anything to distract his mind he got up to get ready for a three scorer case Lestrade sent him earlier. He would probably solve it on his way to the Yard without even checking the evidences. No not probably, surely. But it would at least divert him and he might be able to coax Lestrade to give him some decent cases at last. He took his phone from the table and left his room. As he reached the hallway he saw Nestor closing the main door. Instantly Sherlock reached him with his vampiric speed and almost snatched the battered envelop that was peeking out of his hand before the butler could even utter a sound.

John's letter.

~0~0~0~

Sherlock,

If you are ready to offer your olive branch then who am I to refuse it? I will 'try' not to mention your brother in future. But political career? I don't know; I was thinking maybe I'll be your biographer or something, you know. You'll solve cases and I'll write about them. Wouldn't that be wonderful?

How have you managed to bang your head this time? Can't you be a little more careful, you git? Do you have any idea how anxious I was? And please tell me you let the doctors treat it completely. Yes, I know you told me that you were alright but you can't blame me for not really believing you in matter of your health. Stop being so reckless, Sherlock. Try to live till I come home.

Okay, tell me what a Mind Palace is. I have never heard of it before. Is it your personal place or something? I used to build my pillow fort when I was little. So, is it like that? No, wait. Don't tell me now. I want to hear about it when we meet. When I get back home. And I will get back home, you'll see.

Now, who is fishing for compliments, hm? Nobody called you handsome before? Are you kidding me?! Don't burn this letter after reading what I am about to say but you are what they called 'drop dead gorgeous', Sherlock! If I didn't know any better I would have thought those cheekbones were probably photoshopped. You are an extremely handsome man and an amazing human being. Here, I should also inform you that John Watson doesn't need to fish for compliments, his charm is legendary. He only likes to hear pretty things from his mad genius, that's all.

There were some things you mentioned in your last letter which confused me and I'd like to address those. Firstly, you said you couldn't make me hate you. Why do you say something like that? Do you really mean it? Do you honestly try to make me hate you? But why?! Hate is a strong word, Sherlock, don't use it callously. And you have no idea, do you? You have no idea that the more you try to infuriate me the more I become fascinated with you. You have no idea that it is impossible for me to even dislike you. You are the hope of my life, Sherlock, you are my home. Don't you know what that means?

Secondly, you are NOT a sociopath, no not even a high functioning one. I don't care whether you were diagnosed or being exorcised but you are not a sociopath. How can you possibly believe that? If you have trusted those who called you sociopath, called you freak then you should trust me too when I say that you are the most human human being I have ever met. You can protest all you want but your every gesture toward me, every letter, every gift negates your self-proclamation. And don't you dare to say that exception only proves the rule. You use it as a foil, it is your defense mechanism but you don't have to pretend when you are with me. You don't have to try to make me believe that you don't care because we both know that's not true. It is not my intention to rip off your cocoon of safety but Sherlock, I want you to fly. Don't delude yourself; don't try to be something which you are not just because some morons failed to understand you. You give them importance by doing so. Ignore them by being your true self- the brilliant, caring, infuriating, oblivious, snarky, petulant five year old who thinks the Sun revolves around the Earth! Seriously, Sherlock? God, you are unbelievable. I wish I could have met you when I had the chance. Or maybe it was never meant to be.

So, you think I deserve someone like you? But it is not possible, is it? I mean where can I find someone like you? You are unique. I know it's probably not something you say in a letter or it is not the proper time but I like You, Sherlock. I like you so much. Not just the way a friend likes another but as a man, well gay man actually, likes another man. You deserve someone so much better, so much better than a common army doctor and it's all so sudden and abrupt but I can't help it. I have to say this now, I have to let you know that your thought is the only thing that keeps me right, Sherlock. You keep me right. I plan for a future because it includes meeting you, seeing you with my own eyes. I don't know if I ever get the chance or not but Sherlock if I come back home I will come back for you. To you. You think I have made you mundane? I sometimes sleep with your letters, now beat that.

I want to see you, so desperately. I want to see you deducing, want to see you chasing criminals or scaring clients or playing your violin. I want to see you at your best, at your worst. I'm sure I'll one day, won't I? You have taught me how to hope and now I hope for all these things. I crave a life beyond this desert, beyond blood and bullets. I want to go back home. And you have to receive me on the airport like a bloody parcel, you nutter. That plan still stands.

Now, I have to tell you something important. Remember the day I called you I told you I was at our main base? There was a meeting regarding an operation. I will be in the team and away from my base for a while. In fact we may have to relocate the base elsewhere but that's not final yet. It's just a routine procedure, nothing special or dangerous, so don't worry. But it may take some more time than usual for me to send my letter. I may not even receive your next letter for a while. But nothing to worry about. It's all well and thoroughly planned. Just a routine. Everything will be fine and I'll be home in Christmas. This is not a goodbye letter, alright? It's just I needed to tell you these sappy things. You can't expect me to go and invade some foreign lands with this much sap in me now, do you? But if anything goes pear shaped (which it won't) I want you to remember that you are an exceptional, marvelous and brilliant man who doesn't need to prove himself to anyone. Don't let anyone, no matter how important that person is, to convince you otherwise. People don't understand you because not everyone is worthy of knowing the real you. It's their loss, not yours. Geniuses don't need to be normal. Normal is boring. You are Sherlock Homes, the only one in the world.

I cherish every moment I've spent with you. Those moments are like treasures to me. I won't trade them off for the world, you know. I hope I have been able to give you some good moments too. Did you really miss me? Will you miss me if you don't get my letters for a while? I will miss you, dearly. But I'll be home before you know it, so be prepared for that. You can keep writing to me all the while, the main base will keep the letters for me. And yes, I haven't forgotten about brining a toe if I lose one.

Be safe, Sherlock. Take your life seriously. Please eat more often and look after yourself. You are too precious, too valuable to take your life for granted. I want to keep writing more and more but I should stop for now as my duty hour is approaching. I will write to you soon, don't worry. Keep yourself healthy and safe. I will miss you.

Yours,

John.

~0~0~0~

Emptiness. That's what Sherlock felt.

Darkness. That's what Sherlock saw.

He couldn't think. Couldn't think. Couldn't think. His head felt blank. His brain was shutting down. This blankness was not blissful. It was not the kind of blankness he felt after reading John's previous letter, not the kind of blankness he used to feel after pushing the cocaine into his vein those many months ago. It was the blankness of fear. Of loss. Sherlock Holmes was afraid. The possibility of losing John made him cold.

Sherlock knew a goodbye letter when he saw one and this letter was one. He had no information to know when this bloody secret military op was taking place, whether it was already over or not. All he knew that it was extremely dangerous and John might….. What if this was already over and John was already dead? What if John died while Sherlock was still waiting for his letter? What if he would never have the chance to see John? No no no. That couldn't be. He should not conclude without proper data. There was no data. Sherlock wrecked his mind for any and every news regarding British Army deployed in Afghanistan. Any failed operation, any casualty. Anything. Anything would do. All Sherlock needed was a shard of hope that John was alright.

Pulling himself out of the initial shock Sherlock dialed Mycroft's number with a nervous hand. He didn't pick up. That bastard was never there when Sherlock needed him. He was out of the country at the moment, frolicking with some megalomaniac politicians. Sherlock wanted to scream. He knew Mycroft would call him as soon as he could but each moment was valuable now. Should he call the number from which John called him? Would that complicate John's situation in any way? John had already taken a great risk telling this much about the op. But would they tell Sherlock if anything happened? He hated not knowing. He needed to know. He needed assurance.

May be he was panicking for nothing. May be John was well and good and waiting for his letter. May be the operation went well or hadn't even started yet. John did tell him not to worry. He told him about his future plan, his desire to see Sherlock. He told him that he would be home for Christmas. John told him that he liked him, liked him more than as a friend. There were promises for future. John wouldn't lie to him, would he? No, John would never lie to him. He would keep his promises. Sherlock would give John whatever he wanted and John wanted Sherlock's letter. He asked him to keep writing. No, he would not sit tight and wait for things to happen. He would do everything to get information of John's safety but he couldn't do that without Mycroft's help. So, in the meantime Sherlock would do what John wanted him to do. He would write to John. He would remind him again about the life they would have.

~0~0~0~


	12. Chapter 12

**Warning: Lots of swear words; Non-explicit violence.**

**Please, see the A/N at the end of the chapter.**

**Hope you enjoy the read!**

**[][][][][]**

**Chapter: 12**

This was it. This was the day. The day which may put an end to everything. Or not. This was the day when the secret operation would be executed at last.

John sat there, on his bed, tense and lost in thought. It was nearly time, but he still felt like stalling for some more. It wasn't as if the base would deliver the mails today of all day, let alone this late in the evening. But still, John sat there hoping beyond hope. Because Sherlock's letter hadn't arrived yet. He was having a sense of foreboding about tonight's mission. At least Sherlock's letter would have helped the situation. It could have grounded him. John really wanted to know Sherlock's answer in response to his confession before standing on the frontline and resisting bullets. What if it was the last letter John was going to receive? Before pursuing this thought any longer John was startled by someone calling his name.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"It's time, mate."

"Oh, okay."

"You alright?"

"Never better."

"Packed everything?"

"All done. Uh..who's gonna take these to the main base?"

"Williamson, I reckon."

"That sod? God. It'd be better to take my luggage with me than to leave it with him."

"Ooh, something precious hiding in there, John?"

"Mm, you can say that, in a way."

"Your letters?"

"Memories."

"Chin up, Johnny. It's gonna be alright. Let's kick some enemy arses, shall we?"

"Hell yeah."

Bertie gave John a pat on his back and smiled. It was meant to be light and cheery but came out tight and tense. Bertie had a two year old daughter back home. His friend left but John didn't follow immediately. He sat there with his head bowed, elbows resting on his knees. No matter how hard the boys tried to make light of the situation with their bickering and banter, the tension was so thick that it could be cut with a knife if someone tried to. They could not show weakness, could not show fear, they had to be brave. Once they put on that Army uniform they were not anyone's sons, brothers, husbands, fathers anymore. They were the manifestation of the raging bravado; a deadly weapon. But deep down, they'd still be John, Bertie, Murr, Robbins and many more. When they'd die they'd be casualties of war, some faceless martyrs. But they'd still bleed red, still hope to see the faces of their loved ones one last time.

John crushed these thoughts. It was not the time. He would get plenty of time after to brood over, to be philosophical but for now he needed to be the perfect soldier his country deserved. With renewed determination John got up, touched his shirt's left pocket, closed his eyes for a brief moment, gave himself a nod and left.

John would be in the second humvee with Robbins, Buffer, Bertie and Davis. When he reached the monstrous vehicle everyone, except Robbins, was already in the car, equipped with all the weapons and night vision gears. John jumped in and settled in the back. Bertie, who was going to drive them, looked back and when he saw that Robbins was still missing called him such colourful choice words that he practically came running and jumped in the vehicle. Once everyone was in the car, Bertie hollered, "To our next birthdays, boys!" and everyone yelled back, "Amen."

They tried so hard to ease up, to make the situation as if it was just another routine raid but the impending danger, the possibility of this night being their last one sucked up all their optimism. John leaned back in his seat and lightly put his hand over his left pocket. The car cut through the desert like a nocturnal beast on its nightly prey hunting.

~0~0~0~

_John,_

_Where are you? How are you? I am aware of the fact that you have already taken a great risk informing me as much as you did but it's not enough, John. I need to know that you are safe, you are alright. Please let me know at once. Call me if you need to._

"5 kilometers North, right?" Though everyone knew that it wasn't exactly a query but John confirmed it anyway. They were checking the map again.

"Yeah, here is the front of the building. We need to enter from this side." John pointed out on the map. They had revised the whole plan a million times probably; it was just a routine confirmation, nothing else.

Bertie quipped without averting his eyes from the road, "Team Alpha will cover the eastern entry."

John nodded absent mindedly, eyes still glued on the map, "And we will be on the south side, yeah?"

"Yes, Doc. Me and you will be just behind Bertie." Robbins confirmed.

_I will tell you all about my Mind Palace. I will tell you whatever you want to know, Just come home._

They were just outside the building. Crouching in the darkness, waiting for the right moment to strike.

"Boys, be alert. Ten-o-one exact." Davis confirmed the time.

"Roger." The soldiers replied in unison.

Bertie turned to John, voice hushed "John, you and Robbins by no means come to the front. You're gonna cover my back, keep that in mind."

"Understood." John clenched and unclenched his jaw repeatedly.

_Why do you need to be in the team? You are a doctor for heaven's sake! Surely they don't expect you to stitch someone up in the middle of a shooting. Will there be any other doctor? Or are you the only idiot with a damnable martyr syndrome?_

"T-t-team A's got a d-doc among them, isn-n-tit?"

Buffer took his time buffering his words out.

"Buff, do us a favour, don't try to talk while we are in, use the signs, okay? And yeah, there's another doc, as far I know."

"S-sh-shut up, Was-s-son."

"Hah! We're doomed."

That earned John a good shove.

_Did you really think you can get rid of me by sending this poor excuse of a goodbye? Do you honestly consider me simple minded? Well, let me tell you, John, I will not accept your letter. If you want to bid farewell say it on my face. Come home._

They were all in clearing the first entrance. It was time to enter the main arena.

"Go go go, all clear. Johnny, cover me."

Bertie would be leading John and Robbins.

"Got it."

"Davis and the team have entered the main building."

Robbins informed as he got the message by his radio headphone hidden under his head gear.

"Roger. On the count of three, boys, ready?"

"Always."

Bertie held out three fingers and mouthed the count,

"Three-two-one- go."

_Don't you dare to fuel your hero complex and be a martyr. Don't you dare. Remember all the things we have planned to do. Don't even think of mucking those up. I will never forgive you if you try to leave me, John. You have to come back. To me. For me. I'll never forgive you if you don't._

Robbins and John were last of their team, covering Bert. The building was dark and shabby. Rundown at one glance but in reality a makeshift headquarter as the information suggested. Bertie was a few yards ahead of them, checking some suspiciously empty hallways.

"Buff and Davis cleared out?" John asked while checking the lined rooms.

"Seems so. Got Davie on the radio jus-"

"ROB, THREE-O'CLOCK"

The sound of bullets shattered the carefully maintained silence.

"Fuck, fucking fuckers. Jesus, oh God, oh fuck."

"You alright?"

"I-I think I killed them."

"Yeah, yeah you did; good for you."

It was Robbins first kill.

_You said in your letter that you like me, then don't leave me, John. I know I am not normal, I may not be the right one for you but for some unfathomable reasons you seem to accept me for who I am. If you meant those things you said then you have to know that I want you here, with me._

It's been hours since the operation started. It seemed that the op was not as secret as it was believed to be. The enemy was prepared for this so called sudden attack. Two of the soldiers were severely injured already but they still hadn't gotten any instruction to back off. The op was still on.

Currently John and Robbins were sitting in a dark corner, waiting for the encounter which may happen anytime. Bert had been separated from them; he was alright though and gave instruction to stay put where they were now. So, here they were, covered in dust and blood, weapons steady in their hands, waiting to dodge death.

"Hey doc?"

"Hm?"

"What's the first thing you're gonna do after going back?"

"We're gonna talk about that now?"

"Mmhm, humour me."

Well, wasn't that an easy one? There was only one thing that John could think of right now.

"Gonna see him."

"Your boyfriend?"

"Nah, we're not…you know…we're not really.."

"A thing?"

"Yeah."

"Oh, come now, Doc. Who sends those many letters to just a friend?"

"He does."

"No, he doesn't. Gotta tell him how you feel, Doc. Life's running out."

"I did."

"Holy shit! What did the pretty boy say?"

"Haven't received his letter yet."

"Fuck. Don't worry, though. They'll safe keep your letters for you."

Silence and frequent gunshots in distance.

"Doc?"

"Fucking Christ, Rob, are you a sodding reporter now or something?"

"If you get a chance, do you wanna have a future with your boy?"

Would he? Could he? Should he? That might never happen but a man could dream.

"Yeah…yeah I do."

_I have never done these things before, John, I don't know how I should respond. I like you too. Though I do not have any previous experience regarding this particular situation but I think I like you more than as a friend. I don't like you exactly the way I liked Redbeard or Mummy or my violin but the intensity is the same or more. And based on that data I can say that I like you very much._

"So, do you love him?"

John sighed. Thinking about Sherlock wouldn't really make his mind clear and alert but he had a vague feeling that Robbins needed this pep talk, regardless of the situation. He was shaken up. So John answered.

"I….don't know. I haven't really met him."

"So what?"

" 'So what' what?"

"I love my Pa, but never met him. Died when I was a wee baby."

"It's different, Rob."

"How?"

"He….he's brilliant. I'm too plain for him."

Robbins snorted.

"Love's brain-dead bastard, Doc, don't you know?"

"And you're a hopeless sod."

_We have places to go John, things to do. All the plans we have done so far those are needed to be executed. I will solve cases and you will write about them, with the help of my corrections, of course. Are these not enough for you to come home? To come back to me? _

"Whats your plan? Gotta a bird back home?"

"Nah, just my mum. She's the best baker in the whole damn country, you know."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Gonna help her open her own bakery"

"Good, that's good, Robbie. Your plans are better than mine."

"Come by the shop sometimes with your London bloke."

"Sure thing. You'll give me special discounts though, won't you?"

"Nah, bad for business."

A friendly shove, a snort and silence again.

"It's nice to have a future, isn't it?"

"You'll live, Robbins, don't worry."

"Of course, I will. I was talking about you."

"Obviously."

Sherlock…..John briefly shut his eyes.

"He told me he would take me to France someday. To show me the Eiffel Tower, you know."

"Just friends, huh?"

"Sod off. Wanker."

_I need you here, John, with me. You keep me sane. All the chaos inside my head, you keep them at the bay. Your life is far more important than mine. You are important to me. I promise I will eat, I will receive you at the airport. I promise I will be careful but you have to keep your promise too. You have to come back._

A sudden attack. Two gunmen. A few rounds of bullets. Two dead terrorists. One injured soldier.

"Oh shit, oh fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. Doc? Doc? Oh shit."

Agonized screaming.

"M-my po-pocket…my-"

"Doc's hit, Bertie? Bert? anyone? Doc's been hit, do you copy? Watson's been hit."

Cough. Splattered blood.

"This is Bert. Robbins? "

Blood seeping through the open wounds, pooling on the cement floor, darkening it.

"Doc's hit, twice…. Hang in there, Doc…. God…shit..send help, quickly."

Robbins tried to put pressure on the wounds. More screaming.

"Fuck fucking fuck. Ho- Robbie? Damn these phones….Robbie? How?"

"Sh'r…..'ock….."

"Bert? Yeah…yeah… shit… been covering me, th-then hit from behind."

"Shit, shit, shit, John? Johnny?"

"My pocke—t…."

"Alright alright, God damnit, Robbins, listen to me, hold the wounds tight, alright? Put pressure."

Choking sobs. Subdued screaming.

"Here, Doc, you're gonna be alright…no no no no no, stay with me, stay with me! God, stay still, don't move your hands, lay still."

Blood. More blood. Choking on blood.

"Bertie, Ber- oh..fuck..oh shit,Doc's gonna bleed-"

"SHUT UP, you fucker, I'm coming. State your location."

Numb. Cold. Fire. Pain. Darkness. Need to reach.

"My poc'et….."

Robbins opened the bloodied shirt' left pocket with trembling fingers and brought out a photograph. He handed it to the fallen soldier.

"Sher-Sherlock…."

_Once you promise something, you have to keep it. You have to keep your promises, John. I'll never forgive you if you leave me; never forgive you if you break your promises. I forbid you to die. Don't John, please. I need you. _

"Hang in there, Doc, you're gonna be alright. Help's coming."

The wounded soldier ran a bloodied thumb across the photograph. Red liquid smeared over the alabaster skin of a man with piercing eyes.

"Sh-Sherlock. Nee-nneed to see 'im."

Golden skin turning ashen, rapidly.

"Yeah, you're gonna see your man, you will. You'll live…..oh fuck. Hang in there. Send help, send medic. Anybody? Damn it, damn it."

"Cantdie…can't d-die. Sher-rock…"

_Please don't be dead, John. Please._

Everything was just a background noise now.

"Pl-please God, lemme live, ple…"

_You promised me. Don't forget your promises._

"Pr-promis'd Sh'rlo'k…"

_John…come back._

"Sherlock…"

Tears and blood.

"God, no no no, FUCK, oh no, Doc?….shit..no. Man down. MAN DOWN."

_Come back to me._

_Only yours,_

_Sherlock._

~0~0~0~

Sherlock's letter never received any answer.

**[][][][][][][][]**

**_The woods are lovely dark and deep_**

**_But I have promises to keep_**

**_And miles to go before I sleep_**

**_And miles to go before I sleep._**

******_-Robert Frost._**

~0~0~0~

**A/N:** This is it, guys. This is the end of the Second Part of this series. I dearly hope that you have enjoyed the journey so far. If you are up for the Third, also the concluding part, then please stay tuned. If you guys are willing to continue reading then please let me know your thoughts, also make sure to follow to read the next part. I am still not very familiar with , so if there are technical faults regarding my uploading, then I apologize for your inconvenience. Thank you for all the supports, follows and favourites. Thank you so much.

Special thanks to **HauntingMelodyofaNightware** and **ramen_luver101. **You guys rock! Your lovely, positive words never fail to make my day brighter. The readers' appreciation is the ultimate happiness for a writer. Thank you so much for liking my story and making me giddy with happiness. Please let me know your thoughts.

This series is dedicated to my bestie, **Su (MagdaTheMagpie)**. Without her, this wouldn't have been possible.

**Reviews are like life support for a writer. So, leave one if you have a minute to spare.**

**Love 3**

**Abbey.**


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